


1600 Pennsylvania Ave

by SWLBarnes



Series: Supernatural Imagines [8]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: American History, Case Fic, Cross-Posted on Tumblr, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Ghost Adventures - Freeform, History, Not Beta Read, Other, Powerful Reader, Reader-Insert, Reader-Interactive, Superpowered Reader, gender neutral reader, ghost whisperer reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-21
Updated: 2019-07-21
Packaged: 2020-07-10 06:56:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19901632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SWLBarnes/pseuds/SWLBarnes
Summary: Request from TumblrA case at America’s most powerful residency brings a ghost whisperer reader face to face with one of history’s biggest names.Alternatively, reader and the boys break into the White House to investigate a haunting, and the reader gets to have a nice talk with the 16th US President.





	1600 Pennsylvania Ave

**Author's Note:**

> This is going to recount Abraham Lincoln's death and the civil rights movement, so please be warned. That's why I added the archive warning. The fic itself has no violence, but the reader does explain Lincoln's assassination, so trigger warning for that!! Stay safe! Also, this is mainly based on being historical and less based on the Dean/Reader aspect. Sorry about that!

“We have a case _where now?_ ” You cried out in shock. Your eyes were saucers as they flickered back and forth between the brothers seated across the large wooden table. Sam trailed a finger over his bottom lip and shuffled uncomfortably in his seat from his place behind his laptop screen. Dean let out a sigh as he splayed his hands out over the surface of the tabletop.

“Yeah, that’s what I said too. But it looks like there’s some crazy crap going on in the White House, and every hunter we’ve contacted for backup has basically given us the verbal finger-”

“Because it’s the _White House,_ ” you interjected quickly.

“Yeah,” Dean muttered in reply, shaking his head. “I know, I get that. I understand that this isn’t our usual… deal, but no one else is gonna do anything, and this is still our job. Innocent people are still getting hurt, and there’s no way the secret service is gonna be able to handle this. We’re kind of the only option.” 

Despite the deep feeling of uncertainty bubbling in your stomach, you couldn’t help but fidget giddily with the pen between your fingers. You had always loved history, and the amount of history packed into that building was mind blowing to you. Maybe this wouldn’t be the easiest hint you’d ever been on, but it had the potential to be one of the most interesting for sure. 

You tapped your pen against your notepad in thought. “But… how are we supposed to even, like… do this?” You wondered aloud. “It’s not exactly easy to get into the White House.”

At this, Dean gave a cocky smirk. One hand disappeared into his back jeans pocket before reappearing in possession of three freshly printed ID cards. He tossed the plastic cards across the table, and you squinted to get a better look at them as they skittered across the wood. 

_They were Secret Service badges._

“Oh you can NOT be serious!” You exclaimed in disbelief. There was no way that would work. There was absolutely no way. That just put the nail in your coffin; you were going to totally get shot for impersonating a Secret Service agent in an attempt to hunt a ghost at the White House. Wonderful.

-

Your couldn’t remember a time in your life that your palms had been sweatier than they were in that moment. Being stared down by a very annoyed sounding Secret Service agent was an unnerving experience to say the least. Luckily, Dean seemed to be able to handle himself at the start.

The agent narrowed his eyes at the green eyed Winchester. “What’re you talking about?”

Dean raised a single brow. “I don’t get what’s so hard to understand. Boss sent us down here as backup. We’re here ‘cause of the-” He began to continue, his tone bored as he carried a slightly annoyed edge to his words. Something seemed to click in the agent’s mind, though, as he was quick to butt in.

“Wait, y’all here for those ghost fellas?” He queried in his southern drawl. One hand reached up and scratched at his salt and pepper beard as he waited for Dean’s response.

Dean, however, seemed more taken aback than he was able to handle. He took a noticeable step backwards, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. The pause in the conversation lingered for a few seconds longer than was socially acceptable, and your mind went into overdrive in panic. Your eyes flickered over the surrounding area until they settled on a box filled with wrapped XLR cables. The labelled side of the box was turned partially away from you, but you could make out just enough to figure out what was actually going on here.

You turned to the agent with a plastered on smile and stepped in front of Dean. “Yes, that’s exactly what we’re here for. Having those Ghost Adventures guys here is a security breach, so boss sent us over here to keep everything under control. Isn’t that right, Agent Michaels?” You turned to Dean as you finished speaking, giving him a glance that clearly said _just nod and agree or you’re sleeping on the couch for months - if we even make it out of here alive._ Luckily, he seemed to snap out of his state of shock and gave a convincing enough nod of agreement.

The agent’s eyes shifted to Sam’s towering form behind you, and you saw the younger Winchester give a tight lipped smile in response. Much in your favor, and to your surprise, this man did not seem much for arguing. His position in one of the most powerful houses on the planet aside, he wasn’t the most assertive of people. Thus, with a quick shrug and a wave of his hand, you were all granted entry onto the property.

You took the first steps onto the perfectly maintained lawn. Your heart thumped wildly against your ribcage, and you could only pray that your gait wasn’t as shaky as you felt. The amount of eyes on you burned into your skin and seared into your memory. Surely you would never let Dean live down the day he made you break into the White House. You were already planning all the ways he would have to make this up to you, if you were lucky enough to make it out of there alive.

Luckily, no one really seemed to stop you after that initial encounter. With a couple flashes of your falsified badges, you were granted access to the mansion relatively easily. You suppose there weren’t really any security threats that could manage to get this far onto the property - all of the break-ins you had heard of were stopped mere feet past the fence that lined the outskirts. 

The area became less and less crowded once you got a couple turns into the building’s winding hallways, and you were grateful for the reprieve. The amount of people swarming the too-narrow passages was dizzying. Hearing Dean and Sam’s footsteps just behind you, you ducked into an empty meeting room to your left. The brothers stepped inside with little trouble following along, and you shut the door behind them.

Your back pressed against the thick wooden door and you resisted the urge to slide down to the ground as you let out the breath you had been holding. If this hadn’t been the extravagant place that it was, you were convinced that your nails would have been digging into the oak slab behind you with the force you used to claw at the dark stained surface. “Oh my god, what are we doing?” You groaned, sure to keep your voice low enough so the noise wouldn’t travel out into the halls. Not that you thought that any sound could escape from any of these seemingly entirely soundproofed rooms, but one could never be too careful.

“We’re committing multiple felonies, is what we’re doing,” Sam replied, his voice laced with the same disbelief you felt in the pit of your stomach. His unnerving reply only caused you to fall deeper in your despair. You ripped your arms away from the door to press the heels of your hands into your eyes.

“We’re so screwed, guys. Do you understand how impossible this is going to be? Do you realize how big this place is?” You dropped your hands to your sides to take in their clearly uncertain expressions. A huff of air left your nose in annoyance. “I’ll give you a hint: it starts with gi and ends with _freaking normous!_ Altogether the fence surrounds 18 acres of land, and the house itself has 132 rooms in it. One hundred! And thirty! TWO! It’s like, over five thousand square meters. And we have to find a ghost in all of that while also not getting shot by the secret service agents that are absolutely crawling around at all times!”

The room went silent, save for your heavy breathing in an attempt to recover from your flustered rant. Sam and Dean shared a quick, worried glance, each one seemingly urging the other to speak up. In the end, Sam must have mouthed to Dean a reminder of who was your boyfriend out of the pair of them, and Dean was forced to concede. The green eyed hunter took a step towards you with a sigh.

“Sweetheart, I know this isn’t our usual deal, but we’re gonna get through this, alright? Sam and I, we’ve done some crazy stuff through the years. Hell, you were there for most of it. We’re not gonna get caught, alright? We’re undercover _pros_ ,” he reminded you with a proud grin. A small smile appeared on your lips despite the stress of the situation. “Plus, think about all the cool stuff that’s happened in this place, huh? You said there are, what, 132 rooms? Think about how many of those we get to snoop through while we’re looking for whoever we’re trying to find. Any ones in particular you’re interested in?” His eyes peered into yours with a certain intensity of someone who knows exactly what they’re doing. He knows your weak spot, and he’s going to use it to his advantage.

Your heart rate steadily began to return to normal as you pondered his question. Your bottom lip curled back between your teeth in thought. “I’ve always thought it’d be cool to see the bowling alley…” you mused in a low voice. Upon seeing the upwards quirk of Dean’s brow, you explained. “President Truman asked them to build a bowling alley, so they built a bowling alley. Nixon moved it to a different location in the house, but it’s still here.”

Sam let out a chuckle at your quick explanation, while Dean still seemed to be stunned into silence. The older man shook his head seemingly to shake away the confusion clouding his mind. “Okay, well, guess I can’t say it was a bad decision. Why didn’t the Men of Letters build a bowling alley in the bunker? Why can’t we ever have nice things?” He complained with a huff. Your lips quirked upward in a smile. “Alright, bowling alley is on the list if at all possible. Now, do you think you’re okay to start working the case?” 

You peered up at the man, and despite the seemingly teasing, exasperated word choice, his tone and facial expression held nothing but concern. It was a genuine question that would be okay with any answer you gave him, quite poorly disguised as a jab to maintain his cool and casual facade around his brother. Judging by the rolling of Sam’s eyes from behind Dean’s back, you could tell it didn’t work in the slightest. You nodded your head in response to his question and leaned into the comforting hand the man had placed on your upper arm.

With a quick grin at you, Dean jumped directly into case mode. “First things first, (Y/N), have you seen or felt any… you know… unwanted guests…?”

He meant, of course, whether or not you had seen any ghosts. You just so happened to have a certain ability with which you were able to not only see, but openly communicate with the souls of the deceased roaming the earth. It often came in handy in situations like these where the spirits were not quite vengeful yet and still open to some reasoning. You had the ability as long as you could remember, probably since you had been born if you had to guess. This was the original reason you got into hunting in the first place. Being able to speak with ghosts made it hard to stay away, especially once you realized how many people were getting hurt from these things that you could stop before they even become a problem in the first place. That’s what brought you here, with the love of your life and his brother, debating your options whilst hiding in one of the many conference rooms in the most powerful building in the United States.

One of your brows raised in question. “You mean, other than the guys the Ghostfacers probably fantasize about each night before they fall asleep? No, I haven’t seen anything. It feels weird, though. Something’s definitely here. It makes sense, though, you know? Place this old, this much history to it, I always thought there might be something here. Just never thought it would get so active-”

Your rambling was cut short as some of your words seemed to finally register with Sam. “Wait, what were you saying about the Ghostfacers… fantasizing? Who are you talking about?”

You offered him a quizzical look in reply. “Seriously? You guys didn’t notice? This place is littered with tons of XLR cables, boom mics, and FLIR cameras. Seems like we weren’t the only people to hear about the strange goings on around here, so we have company. The dudes from that show Ghost Adventures are here filming an episode. That’s the only reason I was able to get us in,” you explained, motioning with one thumb to the door still pressed against your back. Matching looks of disdain settled upon the brothers’ faces, both of them surely reminiscing on their times shared with Harry, Ed, and their crew. On their disgust, you maintained your silence; you were actually quite fond of Ghost Adventures, to be honest. The paranormal aspect of it was enjoyable to poke fun at, but it was also incredibly interesting to hear about the backstory of all the places they visit. They had backstage passes to every piece of the past you could ever dream of, and that was quite clearly something that would catch your attention. 

“Fan-freaking-tastic,” Dean growled out in frustration. “There’s no way we’ll be able to sneak around them. Any chance we can try to just kick them out? We’ve got these bad boys,” he wondered aloud as he dangled his false Secret Service badge in between his pointer finger and thumb. You shook your head slowly.

“No, I don’t think that’ll work. But, maybe…” You trailed off, biting your lip as you peered up at the brothers. They weren’t going to like it, but it was probably your best option.

“What is it? Have you got something?” Dean prompted you.

“It’s just… maybe we could… work with them?”

You regretted the words as soon as they hit the air. Both of the brothers’ faces contorted in disgust at your suggestion. “What?” Dean’s voice cried in disbelief.

“No way!” Sam denied at the same time. 

Your eyes rolled so far you were surprised you weren’t quite able to get a peek of your own brain. “Guys, come on! Grow up a little! You dragged us all into this mess, and I’m giving you an option that might get us out of this free and alive. I know it’s not the most fun thing in the world, but I’d much prefer dealing with these guys for a night than dealing with my new cellmates for the rest of my life once we get caught snooping around the White House,” you pleaded, tone insistent. Silence settled between the three of you momentarily as the pair looked to each other to converse in the silent way only they knew how to. The tense span of seconds finally passed as Dean let out a sigh and nodded his head.

“Alright,” he growled. “Fine. What’s the plan?”

-

Having Garth on speed dial with a speech prepared was the best decision you ever made, you soon realized as you watch the backs of the retreating agents. Dean’s silver tongue wasn’t able to get the three agents stationed with the Ghost Adventures crew to bail. You had whipped out one of the numerous business cards Garth had given you in case of emergencies and handed it over to the man who seemed to be in charge. About five minutes and a very pale faced Secret Service agent later, you were able to stroll up to the film crew with no more obstacles. The older Winchester continued to grumble behind you about how Garth would never have been able to intimidate someone face to face, and that he could’ve cracked that guy if you had just given him more time. You paid him little mind and decided to let him figure out his issues in his own time.

“Change of plans,” you called out to the crew. They all froze in their respective places, hands halting mid press of a button or unraveling of a cable. Clearly being in a place with such high esteem as this had them all on strings. You cast the group a reassuring smile to ease their nerves somewhat. “Head office switched the timetable around, so my associates and I will be the ones overseeing this whole operation instead. My name is Agent (Y/N) DeVille. This is Agent Dean Michaels, and that’s Agent Sam Dall. We’ll be making sure everything runs as smoothly as possible tonight,” you introduced yourself, motioning to either of the brothers in time with your words. You were met with a nodding of heads before the previous work started back up again.

You turned around to face Sam and Dean, who held the same exasperated looks as when you first pitched this idea. “What? You wanted to do this hunt, we’re doing this hunt. Unless you’d like to concede and just admit that I was right and you were wrong, and that this whole thing is a terrible idea that’s going to end in us being either arrested or killed?”

Silence met your suggestion, paired with two sets of glaring eyes boring into your skull. You opened your mouth to speak again when a familiar voice called from behind you. “Hey!” The new voice greeted. You turned on your heel to face the Ghost Adventures host with a smile. “My name is Zak Bagans, and I kind of run this whole thing. I hear you three are going to be watching over us tonight?”

He held out a hand for you to shake first, which you quickly took. You reintroduced yourself and the brothers standing just behind you, explaining the fake situation you made up only minutes prior to lure the other agents away. Luckily, Zak was none the wiser to your fibs, and he accepted your lie with a smile and a nod as he shook hands with Sam and Dean.

“Great to meet you all. Now, I’ve gotta ask, are you guys believers?” He paused momentarily before speaking up once again, this time rushed as if worried he had offended you. “It’s perfectly fine if you’re skeptics, I understand that! I used to be one, so no judgement here.”

You let out a chuckle to cover up the low groans of annoyance sounding from behind you. “I know I, for one, am a pretty big believer. Not sure about these two, though?” You turned to face the brothers with a teasing smirk.

Dean gave you a sickly sweet smile that you could see through instantly. “I’m a believer, too,” he replied gruffly. Sam gave an awkward nod and thumbs up in agreement. You fought back laughter as you turned back to the TV personality.

Zak’s calm smile never left his face as he, too, gave a nod. “Alright, that’s great! It should be nice to have you guys with us. Before we get into anything, we just need to know for camera angles and all of that, are any of you okay with being in some of the shots? If not, just let me know and I’ll make sure the cameras don’t pan over to you.”

Sam and Dean instantly jumped into an explanation about how they can’t be on camera for safety concerns and things of that nature, but you were quick to cut in. “Actually,” you began, “I would be okay with being on camera. This whole paranormal thing has always fascinated me, so I might be a bit close to the action sometimes. Wouldn’t want to ruin your shots just because I’m curious and picky about who sees my face.” You let yet another lie slip off your tongue without a second thought. Zak gave one last nod of understanding before rushing off to explain to the rest of the crew.

“What the hell was that all about?” Sam hissed from behind you. You turned and placed your hands on your hips in a challenging manner.

“What? Come on, Winchester, they’re gonna be right where we need to be. They’re going to check out every single hot spot in this place, and that’s what we need. We can’t stand idly by in the background just because we’re a little scared of people seeing our faces. Now, since I’m the only one of us that hasn’t been on the FBI’s Most Wanted list before, I’m going in. I can handle myself, and I’ll keep any of my screentime to a minimum. Hell, maybe we’ll be able to corrupt some of the files before we leave so anything good they get won’t make the final cut anyways. Sound good?” 

The Winchesters shared a look once again. This time their looked seemed to be one of defeat as neither one was able to come up with a concise enough reason for you to not go through with this plan. Dean let out a sigh. “Okay, fine. But if anything happens tonight, and I mean anything, you come get us. I know you can handle yourself and you can do this on your own, but you don’t have to. Don’t go dying for your pride, alright?” He urged. He peered into your eyes with a look of mixed emotions. Beneath the emerald gaze swam a bubbling mixture of hard insistence and unending adoration. A small smile tugged at the corners of your lips as you agreed, and Dean reached out to give your hand a quick and discreet, yet affectionate squeeze. 

And thus the night began. 

The investigation was slow and steady. Cameras were placed throughout the building in several hot spots. The accounts of paranormal activity at the White House likely numbers in the thousands, you assumed, and the list of supposed spirits sticking around is vast. Thomas Jefferson is said to be heard playing his violin by many guests. Andrew Jackson, the uproarious bastard, can often be heard swearing up a storm in some of the house’s rooms. Even Abigail Adams, the first First Lady to live in the White House, has her own legends of ghoul-dom. During her time as First Lady, the East Room was not yet finished, and the walls not complete. This gave her the perfect space to dry her laundry, which she is said to still be seen doing to this day. The question was, which spirits are real, and which one was causing a commotion recently? 

As time dragged on, it became abundantly clear to you that your presence seemed to be a deciding factor of whether or not there would be activity. When you stood just behind the camera, a gust of wind would pass by the crew. Approaching a table at one point prompted one of the chairs to tug out a couple of inches and squeak audibly against the floorboards. Zak insisted that he felt someone tugging on his shirt multiple times, which you brushed off as paranoia all the way up until you, too, felt something very clearly yanking on your flannel sleeve. Your head snapped up to look Dean in the eye, your other hand grasping at the fabric in shock of finally feeling evidence of this ghost you had been searching for. The older brother furrowed his brows in question, and you twirled the iron ring around your finger as a way of communicating what needed to be said. Something is here. Dean gave a solemn nod and turned to pass the message on to his brother.

It all came to a head when you stepped past one of the EMF readers and instantly caused a spike in the readings. Shortly after this, the crew needed to change out the batteries to the cameras, giving Zak the perfect opening to approach you. “Agent DeVille,” he began, brows furrowed in thought. “I know you said you were okay with being on camera, but I couldn’t help but notice that you seem really… well…” He paused momentarily, clearly at a loss for how to explain what he saw. “I really don’t want to use the term ‘ghost magnet,’ but it’s kind of all I’ve got right now. Either way, a lot of this activity seems pretty centered around you. I was just wondering, since it seems so natural for spirits to interact with you, would you mind maybe trying out something for us?”

It was a simple enough question. Plus, you wagered, it was the perfect way to investigate without having an entire film crew breathing down your neck. A simple word of agreement was all it took for the man to hand you a small black device and begin rattling off instructions.

“This is called a spirit box. Basically, it’s going to scan through different radio frequencies at a high rate of speed, and hopefully that should provide energy for the spirits to communicate through. Multiple words that connect through multiple channels indicates a spirit is speaking with you.” The television host walked you through the workings of the little box as quickly as he could, realizing that the crew was almost ready to start rolling again. “It can be difficult sometimes to discern what they’re saying,” Zak warned, “but just try your best and we can always figure it out in the playback. Sound good?”

One more word of agreement. A GoPro placed in your hand. A wary look back at the Winchester brothers. Two uncertain, tense gazes staring back at you. A few steps towards a door. 

The Lincoln Bedroom.

Of course it was the Lincoln Bedroom. Where else would they want the “ghost magnet” to go, than arguably the most active room in the house? You felt your heart thump wildly in your chest at the prospect of what this room might bring, given its history. If the likes of Winston Churchill, Queen Wilhelmina, and (feasibly the most important) Ronald Reagan’s own dog are to be believed, then you had a sneaking suspicion you knew who you were to be speaking to. A chill of both excitement and anxiety rushed down your spine.

The GoPro in your hand recorded every movement you made as you took a few strides into the room. Your other hand felt heavy with the weight of the spirit box. It almost felt like a slap in the face to be handed such a thing. Of course, you knew this wasn’t Zak’s intention, but it still felt awkward just the same. The idea of using a device like this to communicate with the dead was an entirely foreign concept to you, as these kinds of conversations never took much effort at all on your part. It came as easily as speaking to just about anyone, regardless of their status as dead or alive.

Even still, you had a plan to follow through with. You took a moment to adjust to the low lighting in the room that the crew had deemed incredibly important for the aesthetic of the shot. This, too, seemed absurd, because a ghost should never be fought in the dark if at all possible. The logic too this entire charade seemed very backwards in your mind, and you supposed that was what separated you, a hunter, from them, as average paranormal investigators. To them, ghosts could be friends. To you, ghosts had broken enough of your bones for you to consider them a threat.

Settling onto the white and gold comforter atop the bed did little to ease your nerves. Though the mattress beneath you was one of the nicest you had ever felt, you couldn’t find it in yourself to feel the relief it brought. Instead you continued to fiddle with the spirit box, prepared to turn it on when need be. You followed through with what the crew told you before you entered, how to introduce yourself and how to ask your questions, but it was all a show. This was nothing more than a performance for the camera. You flicked the spirit box on and immediately winced at the deafening, high pitched static that screamed to life out of the tiny device. The channels flicked through rapidly, some playing music or carrying the voices of radio commentary, while most held nothing but white noise. 

You spent a couple of minutes playing along, asking a few questions and waiting for a response. The responses you received were short and to the point, only serving to frustrate you further. Is this really how it is for the rest of the world to communicate with spirits? You felt like you were on a phone call with someone who had somehow gained half a bar of cell reception from inside a submarine at the bottom of the Marianas Trench. 

Once you felt yourself to be at your wits end with the cursed machine, you jumped into your own little plan. All it took was a convincing cry of fright, and jerk of your hand, and the press of a button for you to feel comfortable enough with that twist ending. As far as any of the crew was concerned, you were just grabbed by a spirit, and that spirit must have promptly fiddled with your equipment enough to stop the recording. Nobody needed to know the truth, right?

You turned off the spirit box with a sigh. “Well,” you began as you stood up and reached a hand out to flick on the lamp atop the bedside table. “To anyone that happens to be in here, the screaming radio is gone. Now we can have a nice, quiet conversation, yeah?”

The room fell utterly silent. You worried that with too heavy of a breath, you might miss something. Your eyes scanned over every inch of the space in hopes of finding something, anything to lead you in the direction of any spirits. And with each passing second you felt your heart dropping more and more. Perhaps you wouldn’t be able to meet him after all. Perhaps he wasn’t the ghost you were looking for. A soft sigh left you and you made your way over to the full length mirror wedged just between the two curtain drawn windows. You stood in front of the reflective glass, scanning over not only your own form in the ornate decoration, but also the room behind you. Nothing. The nagging feeling in the back of your mind yammered on about how close the spirit was, and how strong the connection was, but there seemed to be no connection to be found. Maybe you would just have to walk back out that door and tell the boys that this case was a bust.

You thought you had steeled your nerves to any possibilities, but that preparation did little to keep you from jumping when you turned back around to face the room. At the adjacent wall, standing just in front of the fireplace, was the familiar looking man you were waiting for. His stature was similar to that of Sammy’s, though his body structure remained on the opposite side of the younger Winchester’s muscular build. His black suit looked freshly pressed, and his bow tie sat straight as could be around his neck. Underneath one arm rested an unmistakably tall black top hat. 

“Mr. President,” you spoke softly. You could hardly even hear your own words over the sound of your own blood pounding in your ears. The lanky man turned to face you fully, his worry creased face contorted in shock.

“You don’t happen to be speaking to me, do you?” His deep voice asked, laced with utter disbelief. All you could manage was a small smile in your state of awe.

“As a matter of fact, I would happen to be speaking to you,” you replied simply. Slow, careful steps carried you over to the ghost of President Abraham Lincoln. It almost didn’t feel real. Out of all the things you had done, this by far had to be the most incredible. You were speaking to Abraham Lincoln. THE Abraham Lincoln.

Strangely enough, he seemed to be just as at a loss for words as yourself. His mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water. “My goodness,” he finally choked out as he reached a hand out to catch himself on the fireplace. “I must apologize for my rudeness, however, I must also wonder, how can you see me so clearly? How can you hear me without turning tail and running out of fear?” The President wondered aloud, head tilted ever so slightly as curiosity battled against what seemed to be a ghostly desire to faint out of shock. “I do beg your pardon, but I have been here for so long. I have seen so many pass through. I have tried my best to help and to continue serving my country, but I fear that I have lost all ability to communicate. Many of those that I have tried to speak with either turn and run or are soon rendered unable to see me, you see.” His tone carried a somber note to it, one that insisted that he was truly at a loss that he could only watch from the shadows. After all he had done for this country, you understood his frustration.

“Well, Mr. President, I’m sorry to say that you’re- well, there’s no polite way of putting it… but, I suppose I could just say that, you passed away,” you informed him, which pulled a small yet cheeky smile from the apparition.

“Yes, I figured as much. I do happen to remember that part. Death came for me as it must come for us all.”

You furrowed your brows in confusion at this answer. “I mean no disrespect, sir, but why would you refuse to go with the reaper that came for you if you believe that all things have their time?” It truly didn’t add up. When you spoke to ghosts, most commonly they seemed to believe that death was not an end all be all. They insisted that they deserved more time.

Abe gave a soft shake of his head and made his way over to one of the chairs sat in front of the fireplace. He settled into one while you sat down in the other. “I suppose I felt as though I hadn’t done enough. That my job was not over, in a way. Yes, the war was over, but I still had a duty to my people, you see. I was meant to lead them out the other side of the war with a strong hand and ensure that they all knew that good times lie ahead. I had more to do, and I thought that staying behind could help me achieve that. It appears that I was wrong,” he explained before promptly falling into silence. His eyes fixated on the extravagant carpeting underfoot, but the glassy look they carried showed that his gaze was far from examinative.

You clasped your hands together in your lap, peering down at them momentarily in an effort to think of something, anything you could say to console someone of his stature. “I... “ You began, only to stop short and freeze once again. You gave a silent thanks that he understood your predicament and remained silent so you could think. Finally, with a collected head, you spoke. “Just because you passed on doesn’t mean your legacy ends, Mr. President,” you reminded him. Looking back up, you muster up the courage to meet his eyes. “What you started, what you built, it didn’t end that day. You took a stand no one else in a position of power was willing to take, and when people saw you moving forward to make that change, they started to believe that maybe, just maybe their ideas of a perfect world aren’t so crazy after all. You were the start of something huge. The things you did and the things you said, they’ll continue to change lives for the better for decades upon decades to come.”

The President’s face held a look of utter wonder as you spoke. A pause followed your words, and a moment passed before he was able to clear his throat and pose his question. “Tell me about it.”

This caught you off guard. “Excuse me?”

“America. Your America,” he clarified. Abe leaned forward and placed his hands on his knees. “Tell me about it.”

You once again felt your throat closing up at the prospect of discussing the issues of the world with Abraham Lincoln. Still, you soldiered on. “Well, uh-” a cough cut off your words as you searched for the best description of modern day America. Preferably one that would put this poor old spirit at ease. “It’s not perfect, not by a long shot. We have our problems. I’m not going to lie to you. But, for the most part, things are better. We, uh, we’ve really moved forward in working towards equality. The whole, equal opportunity for all ideal, we’re headed down that road as best as we can. Slavery is gone, thanks to all of your hard work. People of any race are compensated for their hard work as they should be. The movement towards equal rights is bigger than ever, you know? There are still those that oppose progress and think this whole thing is a step backwards, but the fight for equality is really strong nowadays.”

A small smile tugged at the corners of his lips. “Slow progress is still progress,” he insists, and you chuckle softly.

“Many would prefer progress to be simple when it comes to the rights of human beings.”

“Yes, well,” he hummed as he raised a hand up to rub at the beard lining his jawline. “Not everyone can think the same way. We can simply bring good nature and hope to pass it on to others.”

“I suppose,” you conceded. You went into a long drawn out explanation of history after his death. You explained both of the World Wars and each war America got itself involved in both before and after. He listened with rapt attention to each and every word.

Your fingers fiddled absentmindedly with the frayed material at the bottom of your flannel. “Science has progressed quite a lot as well. I thought that might be of interest to you,” you added with a grin. Lincoln seemed to visibly straighten in his chair. “You’re a large part of how we got to where we are, in terms of science and engineering. Plus, you’re still the only President to hold a patent.” Your final sentence took on a teasing tone, that luckily seemed to go over well as he let out a hearty chuckle.

“While I’m glad to know that my record stands the test of time, I can’t help but be disappointed that no other Presidents after me have tried their hand at inventing something of use to the people,” he mused, his voice a low hum in the otherwise silent air of the vast bedroom. Your quiet huff of amusement was the only sound for a passing moment before he asked the question you weren’t at all prepared for. “I must know, what happened that night?”

You froze where you sat, your blood seeming to fall victim to the same stagnant fate. There was no heart pounding, blood rushing clamor in your ears this time, and at once you decided that the utter silence this left you with felt infinitely worse. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you muttered. Perhaps you could act utterly oblivious and he would let the subject go.

Alas, you were wrong. “The night I died,” he clarified. “I just wish to know what happened that night, truly.”

With an audible swallow, you found yourself adjusting the iron ring around your right ring finger as if in preparation. Who knows what might happen when this spirit if met with the truth of his own demise? It didn’t often end anything less than bloody. “Are you sure you want to know, sir?” You pushed him to back down, but with a single look he reminded you of who he was, and how that was never going to happen. A sigh escaped you, and you no longer felt capable of looking him in the eye. “Clearly you know that you were shot,” you began, in perhaps the worst way possible, you immediately realized. Your face contorted into a wince before you continued. “But the man who shot you… He was John Wilkes Booth, sir. The actor John Wilkes Booth is the man who shot you. I’m not sure if you were at all coherent at the time, but after he did it, he jumped from your balcony seats in the theatre, got his riding spur caught on the Treasury flag in front of your box, and landed on the ground twelve feet below. Some people say they heard him yell ‘Sic semper tyrannis’ but others, including Booth, claim that he actually only said ‘Sic semper’ before stating something in English, usually claims say it was something about revenge for the South or setting the South free. He ditched his gun for a knife, and swung at anyone who dared to stand in his way. He rode away on horseback.”

Lincoln blinked rapidly in an attempt to process this new information, and after a moment, he slumped back against the back of the chair. “You said Booth spoke of what he did,” he murmured. “So he was caught?”

Your bottom lip caught between your teeth. “He fled with a man named David Herold and remained on the run for 12 days. They arrived at a man’s farm and Booth insisted that he was a wounded Confederate soldier. The man let them stay in his barn, but a couple days later, soldiers arrived and threatened to set fire to the barn with Booth and Herold still inside. Herold surrendered himself, but Booth yelled out that they would never take him alive. So they set the barn on fire.”

Lincoln’s eyes widened at this prospect. “John Wilkes Booth burned to death in a barn?” He stammered in utter disbelief. You suppose it made sense. President Lincoln didn’t specifically know Booth as the man who killed him. The main reason he knows the man’s name is his affinity for acting and maintaining his place in the center of attention on stage. 

You simply shook your head. “No, he grabbed a couple of guns and ran out the back exit. It was actually a man named Boston Corbett that defied orders and found himself at the back of the barn, in the perfect position to get a clean shot at the back of Booth’s head and sever his spinal cord. He died unable to move, cursing at his hands that they were useless. That’s… That’s how it happened.”

A lump rose in the back of your throat and you fought to force it back down. The silence that followed was one of the most teeth grinding sensations you’ve ever fallen witness to. The only thing to be heard was your own uneven breathing. For a moment you began to wonder if he even still sat across from you, but you couldn’t bring yourself to raise your eyes to his.

Finally, he spoke. His tone remained the same soft, even one he had used throughout your entire conversation. “May he rest in peace, then,” was all he said. At this, you were unable to keep your eyes off of him. 

“What?” You practically cried out in shock. “I mean no disrespect, Mr. President, but how can you be so calm about the man that ended your life?”

His expression was that of a man content with his findings. His eyes held not even a hint of malice or uncertainty, and the upwards turn of his lips only added to his serene state. Suddenly, every report you read of Lincoln after his last breath began to make sense. The lines of burden littering his skin seemed to melt away, and the rigid posture he had taken up was nothing but a memory you could now hardly recall the look of. It was, as John Hay famously claimed, a look of unspeakable peace. 

“What’s done is done, and I now see that I was foolish to believe that the American people were not ready to carry on my beliefs. While my fear that America would not keep moving forward may have been out of love, it was also without the certainty that America is home to many good hearted people that will stand up for what they believe. That in itself is enough to celebrate, is it not?” He queried in his deep baritone. This still did not sit quite right with you, but life with the Winchesters did make one simply annoyed at the idea of death ever being a fixed state.

“But aren’t you… I don’t know, angry? I mean, he killed you. Out of utter hate, he killed you. I just don’t understand how you can wish him peace in the afterlife,” you continued on, truly baffled at this man’s reaction to such a tale of his own death.

“I wish everyone peace at all times,” Abe commented as though this was as obvious as the nose on his face. “Hate is created out of unrest in the heart, yes? I simply hope that after he departed this world, he went on to find the peace he didn’t have in his life.”

For the umpteenth time, you were shocked into silence. That wasn’t the response you expected from this story. “For the record, Mr. President, I respect that outlook, but also, John Wilkes Booth was the absolute worst kind of person,” you spoke without really thinking. Instantly you slapped a hand over your mouth as if that would take the words back.

The pounding of your heart almost drowned out Abe’s boisterous laughter. “Like I said, we can’t all think the same way. I just hope I never gave off the impression that violence and hatred was my goal. I hated the war just as everyone else did, but it was a means to an end. I wanted to violence and bloodshed to stop as soon as possible, and the day it finally came to an end was one of the greatest days I’ve ever lived.” The upwards lilt of his tone truly encompassed the passion he clearly felt, and you nodded and smiled along.

“Not to worry there, sir. No one ever thought you were some out of the box madman prepared to go on a rampage,” you reassured him with an amusing tone of voice. Yet another chuckle rumbled from his chest. A moment’s silence passed, and you felt your phone buzz in your pocket. A text from Dean, clearly worried and prepared to knock down the door any second. You had been in there too long. With one look up at the ghost across from you, you could tell this was it. “Are you ready to go?” You asked him simply as a confirmation. He gave a smile and a certain nod. 

“More than ever. With people like you in this world, I know I’ve left it in safe hands. No matter who lives in this building, no matter what their agendas are, the people of this nation are headstrong. Thank you for reminding me of that.”

Those were the final words he spoke to you before a blue light encompassed his silhouette and evaporated his frame, carrying his soul up to the sky where he would finally be able to rest. A small smile made itself clear on your face, and a few tears pricked at the corners of your eyes. You made one last, quick round of the room to ensure that you left everything as it was when you entered before opening the door and walking down to where you saw the rest of the crew standing. Sam and Dean rushed towards you, Dean’s panic stricken face showing no signs of settling down at the sight of your flushed and shaken appearance. As you recounted your lie about the camera cutting out to the crew, who listened with clear interest, you gave the brothers a look that clearly told them that you would explain later.

-

And later it was. You had remained pretty silent on the ride back to the Bunker, simply letting Sam and Dean know that the hunt was taken care of and not to worry about it. The main goal was to get out of Washington D.C. without being arrested for trespassing on the White House property and impersonating Secret Service agents with fake badges that had the names of Poison members on them. It wasn’t until all three of you sat around one of the tables in the bunker’s library that you finally explained what really happened back in the Lincoln Bedroom. Sam listened with wide eyes, absolutely enthralled with the idea of meeting the 16th President of the United States. Dean, on the other hand, teetered on the cautious side of things, opting to ask you questions about ghostly behavior as opposed to Sam’s questions about how he spoke and what he said. 

“So you swear he never tried to hurt you?” Dean asked for approximately the seventieth time. 

With a roll of your eyes, you replied, “Yes, Dean, I promise you that Abraham Lincoln did not try to beat me to death with his top hat."

The older hunter let out a huff, while his brother erupted in laughter at the imagery of that situation. “You know that’s not what I mean!” Dean argued, glowering in frustration. You shook your head with a smile and reached out, grabbing his hand where it rested on the table.

“I know, I know. You’re just so easy to poke fun at, you know?” You teased mercilessly. His eyes narrowed, and he tugged on your hand to pull you closer to him.

“And you’re the only one allowed to do it,” he muttered before pressing his lips to yours. You melted into him, raising your free hand to press against his cheek.

Your moment of adoration with the man you loved was promptly disrupted by a gagging sound from across the table. You broke apart just in time to see Sam rising from his seat, allowing the chair to squeal against the hardwoods as he tipped his beer bottle back to take a swig. “You guys are gross. Fun conversation is over, I’m heading to bed. Please don’t have sex on the table!” The taller brother called out as he left the room, turning his head to shout behind him before turning and walking down the hall.

“Goodnight!” Both you and Dean yelled out in sync. As the footsteps faded away in the background, Dean turned to you with a cheeky grin. 

“Sam’s last suggestion sounds kinda fun, don’t you think?”


End file.
